


Bound to Bleed

by tarahptrell



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarahptrell/pseuds/tarahptrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>---I'm aching for you,<br/>But you're bound to bleed if I adore you.---</p><p>What happens when you take everything away? Take it all and replace it with only the will to survive? The baser human instinct to bypass all hardship and persevere through even the worst of circumstances, purely for the simple continuation of life, is a true fascination. Why else would a King watch survival for sport? But playthings are still people, at least, to the plaything themself and, like people, even whole worlds aren't always as they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remembrance

“Say, pal.”

Wilson's eyes refuse to open, his breathing shallow as he listens to the voice through what feels like a wall of water.

“You don't look so good.”

The condescending tone, even in this hazy state, is still easy for Wilson to pick out. 

“You should find something to eat before night comes.”

With a sound that only could be described as a whooshing, the source of the seemingly-disembodied voice vanishes. Wilson, groaning, sits up, a hand flying to grip his forehead when the rush of blood sends a sharp pain flaring bright-red across his vision. His head aches.

...But why?

Blearily, he glances around, then blinks away the fogginess in his vision as he stands, all the while turning to slowly take in his surroundings. He scours his mind for what he remembers, eyes squinting scrutinizingly at the forested backdrop that now surrounds him. Slowly, it comes back to him, first in flickers of remembrance but then crashing down like a dam bursting. His house, the machine, the voice over the radio telling him to flip the switch... Then everything going black. Wilson still remembers the panic, the inexplicable feeling of dread inching its way through him, and then suddenly drenching every cell in his being with pure terror as the blackness surrounded him. But the blackness wasn't _nothingness_ , no, nor was it simply unconsciousness – it was _tangible_. The darkness – the _shadows_ – were real, physical, taking a corporeal form unlike the nightmares that had previously danced around the edges of his mind (and later his vision) the longer he barricaded himself in his home, dedicating every second to following the alien blueprints intrusively downloaded into his mind. He remembers the sleepless nights spent achingly hunched over his disastrous workbenches littered with this and that, and he remembers moving as if his body were not his own. Not simply that he was not realizing what he was doing, no, it felt almost as if he were being controlled. 

It hits Wilson now that the voice greeting him as he regained consciousness just now was the exact same that had accompanied him over his radio during the weeks of work. The voice that incessantly nagged at him to “keep at it, pal”, taking on any manipulative technique that would work in the moment. The voice took so many different tones, everything from harsh and brutal insults to smooth and soft goading and, regardless, Wilson found himself drawn to that mesmerizing voice that was his only real company. Even though Wilson could never really tell if the owner of the voice was real or not. But, now that Wilson knows that whoever _he_ is, _he's_ here, too, in this world, he's hit with a wave of nausea: the same familiar feeling of dread he'd felt only shortly before. 

Deep in the belly of this behemoth of a world, The Puppetmaster _grins_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go. Something I just spat out in a few minutes. I want to keep writing this but am ambivalent about posting it, so if on the off-chance this happens to get good reviews, expect more updates relatively soon.


	2. Repetition

Wilson cracks his eyes open, then squints irritatedly in reaction to the intrusive sun shining through the cracks in stone wall of his makeshift camp. He groans in pain when he tries to stretch out the crick in his back gained from sleeping on nothing more than a sleeping roll weaved of picked grass. Wearily, he rises, packs up the roll and, sighing, turns to the fire pit where he fumbles with some twigs and tinder for a few moments before an almost shy, but victorious, crackle begins to sound out. The days have been blurring together, and Wilson has only vague and redundant memories of gathering resources, eating seeds and berries (and sometimes even wild carrots if he's lucky) that he's scavenged, and stockpiling his supplies on the edge of the same forest that he woke up in roughly a week ago. Even though it's hard to pinpoint when exactly a day begins or ends, mostly as he doesn't sleep much anymore, a daily notch in the wall nearest what could possible be considered a “door” (when in reality it's little more than a larger gap between two of the walls). The walls aren't even really walls. They're rocks piled up about a foot high, not providing any protection in the least and doing nothing more than marking out a very limited living area.

With his attention mostly on the fire pit to make sure it lasts just long enough for him to prepare a suitable (or whatever passes for suitable nowadays) breakfast, Wilson fishes out a pair of carrots and a handful of berries from his backpack that he clumsily cooks over the small fire with some shoddy tools he'd created from lashing flint to twigs. He waits as patiently as he can, knowing that it'll taste much better and seem much more filling if he cooks them properly, but his empty stomach gurgles eagerly, sending sharp hunger pains shooting around his middle. Wilson perseveres, however, then gulps down his breakfast hurriedly, glad for the relief of having _s_ _omething_  to satiate himself.

The scientist wastes no time now. He knows how limited daylight is, and just how precious it is, too. He recalls painfully the first night where he'd failed to produce a fire and earned a gouge on his right arm from some... _thing_. Something big. Something lurking in the dark. Needless to say, that was the only lesson Wilson needed to learn to understand just how dangerous the darkness was. Honestly, he was relieved the creature hadn't done any more damage than it had. Though Wilson was confident that if he'd spent any more time away from the safety of light, he wouldn't have been as lucky a second time.

He packs what he needs for the day, tools, mostly, and leaves everything he'd gathered in the previous few days behind in his camp. The day, however, seems to go by far too fast. Wilson had followed a road through a swamp and opened into a massive field full of rabbits. A potential food source, if it were closer, but he recalls that near his home-forest (as he's begun to call it) is an equally as plentiful field. Perhaps he could fashion some sort of trap to catch the little buggers. Skinned and well-prepared, they could be somewhat sustainable for some time, and what Wilson wouldn't give for fresh meat, as well. It wouldn't be as glamourous as the roast game he'd have for dinner on a special occasion back home or when money allowed it, but he still really lucked out, here. Though... what luck? The same luck that got him stranded in this nightmare of a world?

The setting sun is enough of an indicator that Wilson needs to stop and, as he's too far from his home base, he'll have to camp here in the field for the night. The grass is at least much softer than forest turf, though he doubts he'll be sleeping two nights in a row. He has far more luck producing a fire now, especially with all the tinder he could ever need completely surrounding him.

As dawn goes down today, a figure hidden among the trees casts a long shadow on the small camp as its unsuspecting owner rushes to revive the finicky flames of the fire. Unbeknownst to the lone survivor, the figure isn't like Them. He isn't a shadow itself, not a hallucination, and instead puffs thoughtfully at his cigar in the darkness of the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to post this earlier but AO3 was having server issues when I'd finally finished writing, so here it is, a little later than I'd hoped.


	3. Righteousness

Lonely is a powerful word. Probably the saddest of words in the entire English language. It's an emptiness, a lacking of friends, of company, even something as simple as polite contact with strangers. Through it can have a far more stoic meaning as well as simply being without companions as it can also mean solitary. Whether by choice or by force, this word regardless is still powerful. This word is one of the many strong adverbs that could describe the man slumped in a nicely padded armchair with dark purple upholstery with the remains of a cigar hanging from his lips. He grips the arms of the chair loosely with his black leather gloves, staring absentmindedly at (and not quite paying attention to) the crystalline structure in front of him which warps with muted colours as it follows an image of a black-haired scientist through a survivalist's wet dream. This man, though realistically one could barely call him a man anymore, plucks the cigar bud from his lips and grinds it into the ashtray to his left, pausing for a brief moment to consider whether he should retrieve a fresh one or not. He decides against getting another and instead slowly drags himself up from his chair. He clasps his hands behind his back as he leisurely ambles around the crystal, watching with a very detached interest as the picture shifts to his perspective as he moves. 

This man may be lonely, but he'd never admit it. He would graciously accept the fact that he's alone, as there are really no others like him, but lonely? Never. You would never hear him using that adverb to describe himself because why would a man – a King – like himself need company? Who needs companions which, in his mind, are simply supposed to be a source of entertainment when you have limitless entertainment available through other means? After all, when he was dragged here, this world was nothingness. It was an empty Void of blackness inhabited only by shadows. No light, no sound, just nothing. But They deemed him worthy, worthy of Kingship, worthy of Godhood, and through this nearly divine intervention the man became more. He truly achieved a godlike status and he created a world through meticulous planning and tiresome years upon years of work. But even when it was finished and prepared, the Game was not ready. It was still incomplete. It lacked... something. 

In description of a place, lonely can mean unsolicited, or remote, and until today this world had been void of all purely human life. Sure, there were humanoid creatures: the Pigs, the Merms, the Rock Lobsters, the MacTusks, but none of these truly qualified for human. The King had to look elsewhere for the something his Game lacked, as that thing was out of his abilities to create. Even some Gods, as temporary as they may be, can and will have limits. Even when the construction and fine-tuning was finally finished, and the Game seemed ready, only most of the pieces were in place. Most pieces, of course, and all that was missing was one little pawn. This is where that gentleman scientist came into play and, naturally, he was far too easy for the King to manipulate. Now here that scientist is, in the clutches of a creator, simply a plaything for amusement. 

The King sighs and steps away from the crystal before walking out of his study, knowing that as soon as he turns his back to the device it will shut off automatically. Usually, this is where he watched from. Watching from a distance was safer, and if the plaything feared the unknown, then the thrill of panic was even more delicious when randomly on a whim the King would send a pack of hounds. It was quite infrequently that he decided to go up close and personal with his toys. A few days ago was his one exception to that rule, however, when he spent the night watching that foolish man try to clumsily fight away the threat of darkness with fire. Still, now, the boredom tugged at the corners of the King's mind. Perhaps he'd spend some time to create something new for his plaything to try out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long break in between updates because work was kicking my ass and it doesn't help that my muse is a fickle bitch with a short attention span (digital cookies for whomever gets that reference). I'll be trying to update this more regularly now that I've got a solid plan for where I want this to go.


End file.
